I am starting to understand how people can become married to their instruments.
... typically, that phrase is meant as a bit of a bitter joke - that musicians don't have time for real spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, boytoys, blow-up dolls, etc, because they're too busy practicing. I don't know if there has actually been a case where someone went to the local Civil Court and asked to be ceremoniously tied for life to their bassoon, but hey, you never know. After this morning...
I opened my locker - bass locker, that is; big enough for a slightly drowsy vampire to take a nap in comfortably - after brunch to work up some excerpts. I hadn't put its case on the night before, due to the fact that there really wasn't a need, so as I pulled it out, I was basically holding my bass in the nude.
(hang on tight folks, we're about to go "romance novel").
This is possibly going to sound silly - or worse, cheesy - and in the most extreme, just plain stupid - but holding my bass can sometimes feel more comforting than a small child falling asleep in one's arms. Basses... are sturdy instruments. If you put your head down on the cool, wooden surface of their shoulder, it'll support you. Violins - and their owners - would probably snap under the pressure of such an activity. When you tug it into position, you're very much being hugged. Together, you're secure - with an instrument you've been playing for a long time, you know the feel of the curves and the wood under your hands. It almost tucks into you. Imagine embracing someone a bit bigger/ taller than you - that you trust and know as the best of friends - and that wants nothing more than to make sweet music with you. That, upon hugging them, they fall right under your fingers and into your arms and you understand just how to get them to sing.
It's ..... it's a comfort food for the musical soul. No sass, no questioning - just the action of reaching out to feel, and suddenly the possibilities are endless.
I wish men were like that.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Hospital Fairy: Magic for Severe Boo-Boos and Long E.R Visits
... I am beginning to believe that I carry a yearly jinx. I'm not quite sure how to express the exact term via verbiage, but once a year - rather, once a summer, someone I know goes to the E.R.
Correction: I *take* someone I know to the E.R.
But! Before you - if I know you and if you are within a vicinity of five miles (give or a take a few hundred) of me, and have suddenly had the urge to FLEE! FLEE BEFORE I COME FOR YOU AS WELL! - keep in mind that it deals with only minor injuries and inconveniences.
so... you know... if you don't mind spending a few hours waiting to see if you need either an amputation or a bag of ice... want to hang out? You have until next summer before you have to start getting worried, because well... The Hospital Fairy already visited this year.
It started two summers ago - I was a relatively green camp counselor for the YMCA, and Freddy was the 12-year-old only child of a slightly neurotic woman and her panic-jaded husband. (Before I start to sound mean - they interacted adorably.) Freddy, as must be told, was at summer camp for the very first time. At age 12, this is a problem - as an only child, it is the making for a catastrophe. You see, day camps - such as the one that I worked for - take children off of their parents hands, wear them out while "having fun" - also known as every physical activity known to man that will burn off sticky PB+J sandwiches and ice cream cones - and then send them back exhausted and unable to do anything but eat their broccoli, answer their parents questions about their days with monosyllable words, and crash into bed, Duck Tales p.j's half-on. If you think about it, it's genius - every summer, ages 6 through 13, parents can literally - and quite cleverly - buy themselves some breathing room, a quieter house, and their children's supervision until school starts again.
However, can you now see the potential problem with Freddy? A great kid - polite, fun to watch.... but someone who had never been truly "allowed" a whole summer without Mom and Dad always around. No day camp, retreat, exile, nada. Thus - while Freddy was excited to experience what we called "All Sports Camp" for the week, his mother was a wreck.
... It didn't help that his first day of camp involved ice skating. Dear Sweet Mother of God, the woman sent him to a place where she was convinced - and no one could persuade her otherwise - that Freddy - sweet, adorable, polite, precious Freddy - was going to fall and crack his head open. She spent 20 minutes holding up the bus instructing me - "just one more time", that if there wasn't proper padding, helmets, etc, he was not to skate. If he was too cold, he was not to skate. If he experienced a momentary stab of anything but sheer bliss, he was not to skate.
And good God, if he did fall and crack his head open, please call her, the ambulance, her husband, and then her again.
Well, Freddy didn't manage to crack his head open, but he did fall. The boy broke the laws of physics - and this I still do not understand - but not only did he manage to fall and slit his own wrist ... but he slit the wrist with the foot from the same side. Landed on his butt, but somehow became a contortionist to pull that off.
And... guess who had to make that phone call home??
Later, as I was running through the incident with my boss, I couldn't help but notice that, within the actual ambulance, Freddy was brilliant. Calm, cool, joked, enjoyed the ride, if you will. His mother, on the other hand, who met us at the hospital, looked as if she had aged a thousand years and had decided that summer camp was no longer a possibility ever, ever again. Mrs. Freddy's Mom made the word "panic" look like "serene lake at sunset".
But perhaps I just don't know this woman - when Mr. Freddy's Dad appeared some 20 minutes into our ER visit, he seemed to expect a quivering blob of crying motherly mess, and was surprised that she was only shaking ever so slightly. (Keep in mind that Freddy managed to miss everything important with the blade - not to make light of it, but if he had to cut himself on the wrist, he did a great job of cutting in the right spot.)
"See?", she trembled, as he sat down: "I barely panicked at all!"
Makes the possible broken arm (kid was a drama queen and wasn't even bruised), and the stress fracture this year ... look easy as cupcakes.
Correction: I *take* someone I know to the E.R.
But! Before you - if I know you and if you are within a vicinity of five miles (give or a take a few hundred) of me, and have suddenly had the urge to FLEE! FLEE BEFORE I COME FOR YOU AS WELL! - keep in mind that it deals with only minor injuries and inconveniences.
so... you know... if you don't mind spending a few hours waiting to see if you need either an amputation or a bag of ice... want to hang out? You have until next summer before you have to start getting worried, because well... The Hospital Fairy already visited this year.
It started two summers ago - I was a relatively green camp counselor for the YMCA, and Freddy was the 12-year-old only child of a slightly neurotic woman and her panic-jaded husband. (Before I start to sound mean - they interacted adorably.) Freddy, as must be told, was at summer camp for the very first time. At age 12, this is a problem - as an only child, it is the making for a catastrophe. You see, day camps - such as the one that I worked for - take children off of their parents hands, wear them out while "having fun" - also known as every physical activity known to man that will burn off sticky PB+J sandwiches and ice cream cones - and then send them back exhausted and unable to do anything but eat their broccoli, answer their parents questions about their days with monosyllable words, and crash into bed, Duck Tales p.j's half-on. If you think about it, it's genius - every summer, ages 6 through 13, parents can literally - and quite cleverly - buy themselves some breathing room, a quieter house, and their children's supervision until school starts again.
However, can you now see the potential problem with Freddy? A great kid - polite, fun to watch.... but someone who had never been truly "allowed" a whole summer without Mom and Dad always around. No day camp, retreat, exile, nada. Thus - while Freddy was excited to experience what we called "All Sports Camp" for the week, his mother was a wreck.
... It didn't help that his first day of camp involved ice skating. Dear Sweet Mother of God, the woman sent him to a place where she was convinced - and no one could persuade her otherwise - that Freddy - sweet, adorable, polite, precious Freddy - was going to fall and crack his head open. She spent 20 minutes holding up the bus instructing me - "just one more time", that if there wasn't proper padding, helmets, etc, he was not to skate. If he was too cold, he was not to skate. If he experienced a momentary stab of anything but sheer bliss, he was not to skate.
And good God, if he did fall and crack his head open, please call her, the ambulance, her husband, and then her again.
Well, Freddy didn't manage to crack his head open, but he did fall. The boy broke the laws of physics - and this I still do not understand - but not only did he manage to fall and slit his own wrist ... but he slit the wrist with the foot from the same side. Landed on his butt, but somehow became a contortionist to pull that off.
And... guess who had to make that phone call home??
Later, as I was running through the incident with my boss, I couldn't help but notice that, within the actual ambulance, Freddy was brilliant. Calm, cool, joked, enjoyed the ride, if you will. His mother, on the other hand, who met us at the hospital, looked as if she had aged a thousand years and had decided that summer camp was no longer a possibility ever, ever again. Mrs. Freddy's Mom made the word "panic" look like "serene lake at sunset".
But perhaps I just don't know this woman - when Mr. Freddy's Dad appeared some 20 minutes into our ER visit, he seemed to expect a quivering blob of crying motherly mess, and was surprised that she was only shaking ever so slightly. (Keep in mind that Freddy managed to miss everything important with the blade - not to make light of it, but if he had to cut himself on the wrist, he did a great job of cutting in the right spot.)
"See?", she trembled, as he sat down: "I barely panicked at all!"
Makes the possible broken arm (kid was a drama queen and wasn't even bruised), and the stress fracture this year ... look easy as cupcakes.
Friday, July 11, 2008
The words of this song are about *me*...
So... Cousin of mine, you have partially "stolen" my idea - note the quotation marks - and ordinarily, this would be the cause for an immense magnitude of unleashed wrath.
... but hey, I'm so impressed by your telepathic thievery that I'll let it slide this time. No harm done. [grin]
In any case, as I walked towards the Mess Hall yesterday for dinner (or was it lunch? I've been down here so long, I've lost track of what meals I've eaten and what meals I haven't, and for someone who enjoys food as much as I do, that's a feat.) with a few other bass players, one of them mentioned the tendency to notice the music of a song before even registering the lyrics. "Much more natural," said he, "to first concentrate and be fixated by the flow of the notes and harmonies before a decision can be made over how cheesy - er... fitting - the words are."
True - but what we never got a chance to debate around, thanks to the introduction of cafeteria style Chicken Parmesan with Succotash! was what happened when the two came together. Not chicken and lima beans, mind you - music and words. Though the first two are delicious, the second two can be utterly soul-explosive. Maybe it's just me, but there are quite a few bands out there who, in an attempt to sound "deep" and "meaningful", have begun to put out albums that look like this:
Chicken Soup for Battered Souls above the Plains of War - the sophomore album from Used Listerine!
1. I Have Longed for your Breath on My Toast in the Morning
2. The Unbearable Heaviness of Having Emotions To Go with My Mohawk
3. The Government Killed My Father, And Yet I Am a Congressman
4. Tolstoy
5. How to Save Car Batteries for Your Soul Chevrolet
6. My Mother Won't Like this Song
7. Fuck
8. My Heart Exploded and Became the Stars in Your Eyes, But This Is Not a Pick Up Line
9. Sex for The Chaste
10. I Wish I Was a Dinosaur, They Had no Inner Turmoil
11. Darkness and Pencil Tips
Has it occurred to any one of these bands that we won't give a fudge about what sort of bent they have about using obscure metaphors if their music sounds like a rusty bicycle chain dragging across frozen tundra in the middle of a cold, rare, Frosty July in Alaska?!
(okay, fine, that was a simile, but cut me a little slack and let me make my point.)
Often, the title - and thus, the lyrics - become so ridiculously twisted and mental that it's literally impossible to tell what you're supposed to be feeling. Singing in the shower starts to resemble AP Literature 12.
"Okay, so in line one, he's against drug use, as it seems to have killed his ex-girlfriend."
"Good point, but in line two, doesn't he clearly state several times that he snorts crack in order to avoid the pain of her demise?"
"A valid point - but as you may have noticed, in line three, he suggests that he wrote this all in a haze of LCD - so the girlfriend AND the crack could clearly be his hallucinations working against him."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.... of course."
"I gotcha - wait.... but Sir, than how to we explain line four?"
"That, Mr. Johnson, will have to addressed after we explore lines eight, fifteen, and three-seven 3/4, because we won't be able to fully discover why he tattooed the opening line from "Red Fish, Blue Fish" until AFTER we discuss his obsessive compulsions about Sushi."
... it has occurred to me that one of the most brilliant things about my major... and hopefully, in a few years, my job... is that I am expected to *feel*, but not necessarily to articulate via verbiage. For example, take Debussey's "La Mer" - we're playing it this Sunday in concert, and I can almost feel the brine in my veins.* (to be taken to mean: Dear Sweet God, I love this piece) Being in that orchestra... feeling everyone move and breathe around me and show their souls so naturally to their fellow players and their audience... it doesn't need words. Doesn't need titles. Doesn't need an explanation, it just needs to feel , and ... it does. For twenty minutes or so, I am the ocean, and I am at peace. Debussey gives a brief title to each movement, but he does not go so far as to assume that we need a full explanation... we just need to hear the music.
I just wish certain bands understood the brilliance of simplicity. Where the music comes from within, and suddenly, even without meaning to, without even picking up a pen or shooting ideas off, you understand what you should be singing, if singing anything at all.
Sometimes words are overrated.
.... (I just hope I don't persuade you to stop reading.)
... but hey, I'm so impressed by your telepathic thievery that I'll let it slide this time. No harm done. [grin]
In any case, as I walked towards the Mess Hall yesterday for dinner (or was it lunch? I've been down here so long, I've lost track of what meals I've eaten and what meals I haven't, and for someone who enjoys food as much as I do, that's a feat.) with a few other bass players, one of them mentioned the tendency to notice the music of a song before even registering the lyrics. "Much more natural," said he, "to first concentrate and be fixated by the flow of the notes and harmonies before a decision can be made over how cheesy - er... fitting - the words are."
True - but what we never got a chance to debate around, thanks to the introduction of cafeteria style Chicken Parmesan with Succotash! was what happened when the two came together. Not chicken and lima beans, mind you - music and words. Though the first two are delicious, the second two can be utterly soul-explosive. Maybe it's just me, but there are quite a few bands out there who, in an attempt to sound "deep" and "meaningful", have begun to put out albums that look like this:
Chicken Soup for Battered Souls above the Plains of War - the sophomore album from Used Listerine!
1. I Have Longed for your Breath on My Toast in the Morning
2. The Unbearable Heaviness of Having Emotions To Go with My Mohawk
3. The Government Killed My Father, And Yet I Am a Congressman
4. Tolstoy
5. How to Save Car Batteries for Your Soul Chevrolet
6. My Mother Won't Like this Song
7. Fuck
8. My Heart Exploded and Became the Stars in Your Eyes, But This Is Not a Pick Up Line
9. Sex for The Chaste
10. I Wish I Was a Dinosaur, They Had no Inner Turmoil
11. Darkness and Pencil Tips
Has it occurred to any one of these bands that we won't give a fudge about what sort of bent they have about using obscure metaphors if their music sounds like a rusty bicycle chain dragging across frozen tundra in the middle of a cold, rare, Frosty July in Alaska?!
(okay, fine, that was a simile, but cut me a little slack and let me make my point.)
Often, the title - and thus, the lyrics - become so ridiculously twisted and mental that it's literally impossible to tell what you're supposed to be feeling. Singing in the shower starts to resemble AP Literature 12.
"Okay, so in line one, he's against drug use, as it seems to have killed his ex-girlfriend."
"Good point, but in line two, doesn't he clearly state several times that he snorts crack in order to avoid the pain of her demise?"
"A valid point - but as you may have noticed, in line three, he suggests that he wrote this all in a haze of LCD - so the girlfriend AND the crack could clearly be his hallucinations working against him."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.... of course."
"I gotcha - wait.... but Sir, than how to we explain line four?"
"That, Mr. Johnson, will have to addressed after we explore lines eight, fifteen, and three-seven 3/4, because we won't be able to fully discover why he tattooed the opening line from "Red Fish, Blue Fish" until AFTER we discuss his obsessive compulsions about Sushi."
... it has occurred to me that one of the most brilliant things about my major... and hopefully, in a few years, my job... is that I am expected to *feel*, but not necessarily to articulate via verbiage. For example, take Debussey's "La Mer" - we're playing it this Sunday in concert, and I can almost feel the brine in my veins.* (to be taken to mean: Dear Sweet God, I love this piece) Being in that orchestra... feeling everyone move and breathe around me and show their souls so naturally to their fellow players and their audience... it doesn't need words. Doesn't need titles. Doesn't need an explanation, it just needs to feel , and ... it does. For twenty minutes or so, I am the ocean, and I am at peace. Debussey gives a brief title to each movement, but he does not go so far as to assume that we need a full explanation... we just need to hear the music.
I just wish certain bands understood the brilliance of simplicity. Where the music comes from within, and suddenly, even without meaning to, without even picking up a pen or shooting ideas off, you understand what you should be singing, if singing anything at all.
Sometimes words are overrated.
.... (I just hope I don't persuade you to stop reading.)
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Keep that tone with *me*, mister, and I'll Dr. Beat *you*!
and.... I've pretty much lost everyone but the musicians there. Ah well - I'm amused. [grin]
- and... to be honest ... that means 33% of the people who "read" this blog are laughing. Looking around quickly to make sure no one can see / hear, maybe, but definitely letting out a chuckle. Or two.
... then quickly resuming the Poker Face of Stonewall Jackson. "Give this girl a few more years of whiffing her way through entries - then maybe we'll admit we think something is funny."
Ha ha.
Haaah.....
In any case, guess who's survived almost two weeks of North Carolina mountain summer! Er, pardon - Nooorth Car-ooh-liiiiihnaah Moun'ain Suhhme'. (!) (I assume that Shaw is now rolling in his grave, but that's okay - when you're buried 6 feet under, no one can hear you scream obscenities about upstart quasi-adults.) And... funnily enough... in this quaint little town barely large enough to be found on Google Earth (though certainly not a *real* atlas, all ye nonbelievers), let alone when you're actually driving through it - "This is a nice pass-through area," you smile, and then glue your head back to your map. "Now, how many more miles is it to Brevard?' - I have experienced a multitude of firsts. All of them that you would expect from letting a gaggle of giggling teenage girls loose on the... town.
Case in point: Guess who went clubbing for the first time?
[looks around happily]
(no, not her!) ME! :D
I'll be honest - this is only the internet. Not only was this a club, but this was an all-out-dancing, get-your-freaky-moves-on club. For everyone 18 and up - hoorah, for the first time, for being 20!
... need I say more? No. No I needn't.
Well, at said club, while I wasn't part of a group doing reconnaissance work for one of our fellow band camp - pardon, "orchestra" camp - members while he wasn't, er, himself, I was actually *dancing*. For the vast majority of that, I mean tangoing / wrestling with the certain, extremely animated "Scott" (now, where's that little asterix thing that I can just do *(ah! there it is! the name isn't really Scott.)) but for about half an hour, with a stranger! I asked a tall, Hollister t-shirt-wearing (don't say a word) guy named Mitch, who happened to be hulking in the corner, to dance!
... I know, I'm shocked as well! And, the best part of the whole experience was that, not only did he say yes (I had the chloroform ready, though, just in case. "His dance moves are oddly slumped and limp!" "Yes, well, he's very dependent on me to keep our mobility up while he er.... rests."), but he didn't touch my tush once! There was a brief period where he sandwiched me with another guy, meaning a brief period of panic for *me*, but curiuosly enough, while the friend was very happy break dancing on the podium, he seemed to tire of being the outside of an oreo pretty quickly, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night without surprises.
... though the drag show was a bit of a surprise. Confederate Flag Sparkling Dresses, anyone? Anyone?
I thought not.
It was probably the first time that - looking back only briefly - I can remember being awake and in the mood for a Huddle House (greasy waffle place) at 2:30 in the morning, but that egg-like substance with that gooey orange sauce that they called an omelet wasn't too bad at all. [grin]
So... looking back... we have:
First time clubbing. Check!
First time asking a stranger to dance. Check!
First time experiencing what many other girls enjoyed doing at junior prom. Check!
First drag show. Check!
First dress made out of sequins and Stonewall Jackson. Check!
First time I'll admit to the fact that I really, *really* want to do it all again.... well, no. I've been breaking out the "Egyptian" all week, just to practice.
... and baby, I do a *mean* Egyptian up there on those podiums.
- and... to be honest ... that means 33% of the people who "read" this blog are laughing. Looking around quickly to make sure no one can see / hear, maybe, but definitely letting out a chuckle. Or two.
... then quickly resuming the Poker Face of Stonewall Jackson. "Give this girl a few more years of whiffing her way through entries - then maybe we'll admit we think something is funny."
Ha ha.
Haaah.....
In any case, guess who's survived almost two weeks of North Carolina mountain summer! Er, pardon - Nooorth Car-ooh-liiiiihnaah Moun'ain Suhhme'. (!) (I assume that Shaw is now rolling in his grave, but that's okay - when you're buried 6 feet under, no one can hear you scream obscenities about upstart quasi-adults.) And... funnily enough... in this quaint little town barely large enough to be found on Google Earth (though certainly not a *real* atlas, all ye nonbelievers), let alone when you're actually driving through it - "This is a nice pass-through area," you smile, and then glue your head back to your map. "Now, how many more miles is it to Brevard?' - I have experienced a multitude of firsts. All of them that you would expect from letting a gaggle of giggling teenage girls loose on the... town.
Case in point: Guess who went clubbing for the first time?
[looks around happily]
(no, not her!) ME! :D
I'll be honest - this is only the internet. Not only was this a club, but this was an all-out-dancing, get-your-freaky-moves-on club. For everyone 18 and up - hoorah, for the first time, for being 20!
... need I say more? No. No I needn't.
Well, at said club, while I wasn't part of a group doing reconnaissance work for one of our fellow band camp - pardon, "orchestra" camp - members while he wasn't, er, himself, I was actually *dancing*. For the vast majority of that, I mean tangoing / wrestling with the certain, extremely animated "Scott" (now, where's that little asterix thing that I can just do *(ah! there it is! the name isn't really Scott.)) but for about half an hour, with a stranger! I asked a tall, Hollister t-shirt-wearing (don't say a word) guy named Mitch, who happened to be hulking in the corner, to dance!
... I know, I'm shocked as well! And, the best part of the whole experience was that, not only did he say yes (I had the chloroform ready, though, just in case. "His dance moves are oddly slumped and limp!" "Yes, well, he's very dependent on me to keep our mobility up while he er.... rests."), but he didn't touch my tush once! There was a brief period where he sandwiched me with another guy, meaning a brief period of panic for *me*, but curiuosly enough, while the friend was very happy break dancing on the podium, he seemed to tire of being the outside of an oreo pretty quickly, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night without surprises.
... though the drag show was a bit of a surprise. Confederate Flag Sparkling Dresses, anyone? Anyone?
I thought not.
It was probably the first time that - looking back only briefly - I can remember being awake and in the mood for a Huddle House (greasy waffle place) at 2:30 in the morning, but that egg-like substance with that gooey orange sauce that they called an omelet wasn't too bad at all. [grin]
So... looking back... we have:
First time clubbing. Check!
First time asking a stranger to dance. Check!
First time experiencing what many other girls enjoyed doing at junior prom. Check!
First drag show. Check!
First dress made out of sequins and Stonewall Jackson. Check!
First time I'll admit to the fact that I really, *really* want to do it all again.... well, no. I've been breaking out the "Egyptian" all week, just to practice.
... and baby, I do a *mean* Egyptian up there on those podiums.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
...but... but... commercial merchandising TOLD me to!
My Diet Coke has a nifty new label on it - if you're judging by the fact that previous cans I've gotten out of the singular and particular vending machine located at the Brevard Music Festival Camp(us) have had Christmas themes. (As you may have noted, it's June 22nd).
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lobster Thighs, thanks to Mahler Licks
Beach = Sun + Sand + Salty Sea Brine... everything that I want out of a two day vacation (time is limited in the Meier Household, if that wasn't quite clear), plus a parting gift.
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I was once the lucky recipient of a Hand-Me-Down Thong.
*IT* was leopard-print. And had fuzzy fringe. *AND*. Not just leopard-print, not just fuzzy... both.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
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